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“What does that mean?”
“It means even I was inexperienced once. Best to let it go, unless you want me to lie here and talk to you about another woman I’ve fucked,” I warn her. “It’s not my usual pillow talk.”
“What is your usual pillow talk?”
…The girl has me there. I don’t really do pillow talk.
Contessa looks up at me, waiting, the expectation in her eyes.
“So tell me,” she presses. “All I’ve got is time.”
I sigh, deciding to spare her the details.
“I was careless, too rough with my first time. Didn’t do the girl I was with any favors. We were sixteen, and neither one of us knew better. One of those lessons you learn the hard way. By that age, I’d already done business for the family, and I didn’t have much of a conscience about any of that. I could kick a man’s door in, beat him down, threaten his family. I’d sleep like a rock that night. But making that girl cry, when I was trying to do the opposite…that bothered me for a long time.” My fingers drift through Contessa’s hair. “Pain can have a place in sex. But pain for pain’s sake, I can get that anywhere in my life. It doesn’t do me any good in the bedroom.”
Contessa stares at me.
“You were doing family business when you were that young?”
“Of course. Fifteen to seventeen, that’s the sweet spot. You’re finally big enough, hungry to prove yourself, hyped up on all that teenage testosterone. And, most importantly, you usually won’t be charged as an adult if something goes sideways.”
The silence creeps in, chilling the room. It grates on me, the way she’s looking at me. How those eyes go from hazy adoration to wary curiosity.
“Now you see why I don’t do pillow talk.” I try to nudge her off me, but Contessa stays rooted.
“No. Tell me,” she insists softly.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Who was the first person you ever killed?” she asks.
The girl is wading into dangerous water again. She just can’t help but swim toward the deep end, where her feet can’t touch the bottom and dark truths circle like sharks.
“My mother. When I was born.”
“Oh,” she says, softer, with pointless sympathy. “Well, that doesn’t count…”
“It did for my father. Were all these questions just bottled up behind your hymen, or are you going to interrogate me every time we fuck?” The satisfaction is starting to wear off now that I’m being cornered by Detective Lovera.
“That’s vulgar,” she complains, frowning at me. “Don’t I deserve to know about you?
They’re just questions.”
“I’m not a pleasant topic of conversation, Contessa. You’ll be disappointed.” I cup my hand against her pretty cheek, scrubbing my thumb against her skin.” I didn’t get us this far without any blood and tears, just for you to make sure you get hurt either way.”
I kiss her, trying to chase out her questions with my tongue. It doesn’t work for long.
“Didn’t I just prove that I can handle you?” She breathes against my lips.
“You handled me because I was gentle with you. I’m still trying to be.”
She smiles, as if I’ve said something funny.
“I think you just don’t want to talk about yourself,” she accuses softly. Maybe there’s some truth in that. It’s not polite for a man to talk about himself is the bullshit line I typically feed people when they get too nosy, but Contessa isn’t just people, and she’s stubborn enough to call me out for a lie. By now, she knows I don’t give a damn about being polite.
“Fine,” I say, throwing the conversation back on her. “How does a woman like you make it to 24, never having a man before? It sure as hell wasn’t for lack of options.”
Of all the world’s mysteries, that might be the biggest.
